Winter is always there,
what a betrayal, that through
each warm setting-sunlit field of grass
runs the threat of icy toes,
numb fingers on stiff denim,
kisses in the paper snows. Whenever
backs are turned, silence slithers in,
the heart to eat that beat when it unfroze.

Winter is everywhere,
the long green-shoot-less tundra surf
of this dry ocean. Her tired face,
so ill-used, a means of making friends, watches
matronly the ones she might have loved.
I too test too tiredly these shallow waves,
interest without interest, care without care,
the desire to make a move, to hover here.


Yes, friendship and even meeting places
can grow cold. Don’t turn to your
compartment-mate. Stare out the window.
And when you get up look briefly at all these
life-sharers you do not know.


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